


Filling In The Blanks

by bzarcher



Series: Overwatch Cryptid AU [3]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: (Where applicable), Adaptation, Adoption, Bounty Hunters, Character Study, Diaspora, Dragons, Fighting Your Nature, Found Family, Ghosts, Honor, Justice, Memories, Orphans, Podfic Welcome, Portraits, Pseudo-History, Refugees, Regrets, Science, Solidarity, Very very low key implied Torb / Rein / Ingrid, backstories, craftsmanship, cryptid AU, heritage, transformations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-06-12
Packaged: 2019-04-30 11:39:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 11,511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14496168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bzarcher/pseuds/bzarcher
Summary: Backstories, portraits, and history on some of the other Overwatch characters and where they fit into this AU, and perhaps a few hints for future possible stories...





	1. Ana Amari, esq.

 

Every Lilu has a great deal of desire. Some simply just use their abilities to read others and manipulate pheromones to get what they want, be it food, sex, money, or more sex. 

The Amari family has always been a bit different.

In Ana Amari's case, she found herself focusing more and more on protecting the nonhuman population from those who would harm them for simply existing, and often finding herself in violent conflict with groups like Saint George and similar extremists. 

"Horus" was known as a protector and guardian angel to many, an implacable scourge to others - but then what Ana had intended to be nothing but a short tryst and some stress relief became much more serious when she found that she was pregnant.

After her daughter was born, Ana settled in Queens' "Little Egypt" neighborhood and attempted to clean up her act a bit for Fareeha's sake. She still took occasional lovers, but only those who she knew would be discrete and provide positive role models for her daughter. With help from friends she'd made over the years, Ana attempted to work more within the law, going so far as to attend law school and pass the bar so she could work on crytpid caselaw. She worked as a community leader, an organizer, and advocate, fighting for what she believed in. 

Ana was delighted when Fareeha began to express a strong interest in seeking justice as well, thinking that perhaps her daughter might follow in her footsteps.

She was rather less pleased when Fareeha informed her she would be going to the police academy and working on a criminology degree instead of pre-law.

They argued over it (the police, after all, had been behind plenty of crackdowns on nonhuman gathering places in the past), and when Fareeha left their home, it was with a chilly silence growing between them.

Ana decided to do some traveling, rather than linger around an empty nest. Visiting old haunts, seeing familiar faces, but always keeping an eye on her daughter.

She's proud (if not entirely pleased) with what Fareeha has done with her career, and her work on the NYPD's ICTF has been quite impressive. Ana still doesn't  _agree_  with Fareeha's decision but she can at least respect what she's done with it.

The fact that Faeeha was involved in eliminating a major Saint George cell (and in a rather public display, even if all the details haven't come to light) certainly got her attention.

(As has the fact that she's apparently in a serious relationship. Ana approves of Fareeha going after a nice doctor, but is not actually sure she approves of  _Angela_  for several reasons.)

In recent years she's begun to wear more traditional dress and fashions instead of the militant dress and power suits of her younger days, with a bit of her style and flair mixed in. Just like Fareeha, Ana is careful about how her pheromones and natural gifts can affect others, but  _unlike_  Fareeha she is much more...liberal in how she applies them. She can play the silver fox / cougar game if it will help her accomplish her goals - or sometimes just for a bit of fun.

She didn't make it this long without using every tool at her disposal, after all. 


	2. Reinhardt Wilhelm, AFL-CIO NYS

The first impression many have of Reinhardt is that he is like a walking mountain, and it is not far from the truth.

Standing better than six and a half feet tall and broad as an ox, his good eye sparkles when he speaks in a voice that always manages to have a bit of gravel in it.  

His expressive face carries deep, craggy laugh lines that stand in sharp contrast to the long healed scar that crosses an eye blinded many years ago in a "foolish accident." (It  _might_  have involved his long blonde ponytail getting caught in something...)

As a bergmönch, Reinhardt is a distant evolutionary cousin of the Oreads, but where an Oread like Athena is a creature of marble, Reinhardt is tied to the granite and stone of Swabia and the Bavarian Alps. 

While the bergmönch were thought to be spirits who aided miners and protected the hardworking from wicked or unjust foreman and bosses, they live, bleed, and breathe just as anyone else - and while there is little call for lamp oil or throwing tools into the earth to help the miners find better ore, there are still many crying out in need of justice from unfair labor practices, the uncaring, and the corrupt.

Reinhardt generally works in construction and as a labor organizer, often helping to support contractors or blue collar workers striking for better benefits or working conditions, a firm believer that _everyone_  deserves a chance to live by the fruit of their labors. 

His typical dress is as straightforward as his attitude, with heavy jeans or canvas trousers that can put up with a great deal of abuse, a t-shirt or a sleeveless tank if he will be working out in the sun, and of course his tool of choice for nearly every job - a 24lb solid steel sledge that the "Master hammerer" can use to demolish a building or delicately tap nails into a birdhouse.


	3. Hanzo Shimada, CEO of the Shimada Group

An excerpt from the Journal Of Modern Cryptobiology:  

**Dragon:** _noun -_  drag·on \ˈdra-gən\

1 :  a huge serpent (archaic)  
2 :  a (previously) mythical animal usually represented as a monstrous winged and scaly serpent or saurian with a crested head and enormous claws  
3 :  a violent, combative, or very strict person  
4 :  something or someone formidable or baneful  
5 : a member of the species  _Draco_ _Sapiens_ _Sapiens_  

As humanity has slowly adjusted to the truth that we share our world with many types of non-human or "cryptid" species (and always have, throughout the course of history), there has been a comfort in understanding that 95% of the species who have either chosen to come into the public eye or been revealed by modern technology are easily explained by contemporary biology and science. That these are not 'demonic creatures' or 'unholy magic', as some would argue, but perfectly natural, often evolving alongside mankind to fill ecological needs and roles over time.

And then there are dragons.

Dragons, who were still considered myth until the Manhattan Tunnel incident of 2004, when ConEd workers accidentally disturbed the long buried lair of a dragon that had been resting there, dormant, since at least the late 1600s. 

(The dragon, who after calming down introduced himself as 'Reginald', was extremely apologetic about the entire matter and was relieved to learn that he could pay restitution with a few examples of gold Broad and Triple Unite coins from his collection.)

Dragons, who can, in fact, change their shape from a large winged and scaled being the size of a city bus into someone who is, aside from weighing 2-3 times what you might expect, indistinguishable from a human in utter defiance of conservation of mass, modern physics, and the square cube law. (The current working theory is some kind of spontaneously triggered retrogenetic rewrite of their own DNA and we have no idea how it would work either. Yes, we have tried to get blood samples. No, we have not had any luck at all.)

Dragons, who in fact do hoard gold because it is apparently vital to their reproductive cycles and no we do not know how, exactly, because if you want to ask the aforementioned fanged and scaled creature with an  _extremely_ _high_  desire for privacy if you can watch him mate, we wish you luck.

In short, dragons are at once the most fascinating creatures on earth and the most aggravating, and if any are reading this journal we have  _so_ _many_ _many_ _questions._

* * *

Many legends in Japanese folklore claim that dragons once ruled over the land, and bestowed their favor on mortals who would rise to become lords and emperors. Great warriors and mighty heroes.

Unsurprisingly, in the modern era, many who want to put on a show of power or prestige often like to claim they have a dragon's blood in their veins, or a favored ancestor who set them on the road to glory.

In the case of the Shimada family, uncontested masters of the  _Ryunokaze-gumi_ (Dragon Wind Clan) yakuza....that happens to be the actual and complete truth.

Hanzo Shimada was born with the blood of dragons in his veins, just as his father was, and almost from the moment of birth he was raised to become the next leader of the clan. Where his younger brother, Genji, was given leeway because he had not been born of the true blood, Hanzo was given strict training in martial arts, finances, leadership, and his own natural abilities. 

He watched the men who would one day be his retainers shake down street vendors and CEOs alike, and before he had turned 14 he was helping to arrange for money laundering and arms deals.

Shortly before his 30th birthday, his father announced that he would be 'retiring', intending to find a place where he could commune with nature and slumber, and Hanzo took up the reins of the Clan and their more legitimate business holdings. Consolidating his power and strengthening his empire took a great deal of time, but he now has the time and resources to pursue his next goal:

Finding his traitorous thief of a brother, and making him repay what he stole from the Clan by any means necessary. 


	4. Mei-Ling Zhou, b. 1962 - d.1987

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief mentions of an assault in this chapter, and a resulting character death.

Mei-Ling Zhou was the daughter of a fairly high ranking Party member in Harbin. A bright and inquisitive child, Mei took an interest in science and the natural world early on in her life, and was lucky enough to live in a family with the influence and level of wealth that allowed her to attend the University of Science and Technology to further her studies. She quickly rose to the top of her class, and at the encouragement of her advisor, she applied to spend a few years abroad at Columbia University.

Unfortunately, New York in the 1980s was not always a friendly place to foreign visitors, and especially not to women.

A victim of a mugging gone horribly wrong during the winter of 1987, Mei didn't want to die far from home and without a chance to see her family again, but more importantly she didn't want to go when there was _so much more to learn_. 

Perhaps it was that urge to stay that prevented her from passing on, or perhaps simply her regrets for a life unfinished, but it was enough to cause her spirit to remain on the mortal plane instead of passing on, and Mei quickly found herself trying to learn the rules and limits of her new existence. 

In her "natural" form (so much as that term applies), Mei looks much as she did in life, wearing a pair of dark blue tights, chunky boots, and a white scoop necked Adidas t-shirt that falls off her shoulder to show the strap of the matching blue tank top she had on beneath it. 

Her hair is kept back with a long hair pin and snowflake ornament, and the thick rimmed glasses she had worn in life were such a part of her self image that she continues to need them in her new existence - she even has trouble reading without them.

As a ghost, Mei can move through the world and chose to speak to and interact with mortals to a limited extent, but it's very difficult for her to touch or move objects...unless a mortal (or at least a still 'living' creature, since Lena and Amelie count despite technically being dead themselves) gives her an article of their clothing. 

Once Mei puts it on (it's traditional to ask for a hat or coat) she becomes solid and tangible, indistinguishable from a normal living person, and can maintain that form for 24 hours before she returns to being a ghost, with the clothing reappearing in the possession of the person who offered it to her at the sunrise of the next day.

(You might wonder if that means she could 'fake' being alive by having enough friends and acquaintances to borrow things from, and you would be correct.)

As she died near Columbia, Mei generally "haunts" the university, though she can ride in a car or another vehicle if someone offers her a ride. (If she tries to, say, get on the subway without someone asking her if she wants to go, she basically just floats straight through the train as it takes off, which isn't fun for anyone. When she's temporarily incarnated, of course, she can just pay for a ticket like anyone else as long as someone has given her some money.)

She doesn't have a home, per se, an ID, or documents - even if she were to apply for a bank account while mortal, it would be closed the next morning, the records of it gone. No one can explain why, exactly, that's just how it works. 

Mei has always gravitated to the biology and ecology labs on campus, and people generally think she's a foreign PhD student who works on things at funny hours. 

(As a matter of fact, they aren't entirely wrong - she sits in on classes and keeps up with reading as much as she can, and could probably have a couple of doctorates if she had someone else write the dissertations down for her.)

She has not been back to China to visit her parents or her cenotaph - the logistics are simply too complex. She would very much like to, but even if she made it, she doesn't really know what she would say, or how she would explain how she now 'lives' despite having been dead for nearly 30 years.


	5. Tekhartha Zenyatta

"We are all refugees."

That has been the lament - and rallying cry - of the Tibetan community for nearly seventy years. 

But even in a diaspora, there are always those who are held apart.  

The people who became known as the Gyalpo lived in the highest reaches of the Himalaya, their bodies adapted for life at the highest altitudes. Short, slim, and nimble, their unique adaptations to living in the mountains include a mass amount of hemoglobin in their bloodstream which gives their skin a unique reddish hue - particularly at lower elevations, where oxygen is more abundant. (In their 'home' altitude, the shift is barely noticeable - they look a bit more flush than a normal human - even a Tibetan born and adapted to the mountain life - but as the oxygen saturation in the air increases their skin becomes a rich red - with the very few Gyalpo living below sea level having skin so dark red they appear to be made of clay, or brick.)

Their eyes are a bit larger and wider apart, and distance and night vision are excellent thanks to the increased rods and cones there. 

Their hands and feet appear basically human at first glance, but a careful observer will notice thick pads at the base of the palm and heels, and subtly hooked dewclaws instead of toenails, the better to assist with climbing. 

Taken as a whole, it is no surprise that most Tibetans took them to be spirit creatures, particularly since most Gyalpo avoided human communities. 

That slowly began to change in time of Pehar, who studied with the Guru Rinpoche after encountering him by chance as the second Buddha crossed the mountains. Fascinated by the 'unique creature' who had escorted him safely from the mountains and accompanied him to the beginnings of the monastery that would eventually become the Samye. 

In mythology, the Gyalpo were supposedly 'given' to Pehar, who subdued the spirits and placed them on the path to dharma rather than spreading chaos. 

The truth, as always, is not so clear.

Certainly not all Gyalpo became monks or scholars - farms still needed tending. Clothing needed made. Food to be cooked. Villages built or maintained. But many did begin to journey to temples and monasteries to study, Some served as guardians and protectors. Others used their natural gifts to aid them in traveling across the mountains as wandering sages, spreading the teachings to even the remotest villages. 

Sadly, a small number were happy to _appear_ to be one of those enlightened travelers, only to mislead, steal, or torment those who had been kind enough to be taken in by their lies.

Still, their contributions were respected, and many Gyalpo were lauded as protectors, given offerings in death in hopes that they would continue on. In the rarest cases, such as the honored Dolgyal, they were recognized as Buddhas themselves, and many Gyalpo looked to them for guidance - an ideal to be recognized. 

It was a good, and honorable existence - until the wars began. 

In the early 1900s it was a relatively straightforward debate - some recognizing Pehar and Dolgyal as Enlightened spirits and protectors - others treating them as more minor figures compared to the clearly human Buddhas and Lamas. But debates began about their roles - some fashioning them as warrior spirits who defended their worshipers against others. Some even claiming they were _only_ to be called upon to fight others, while some questioned if they should be revered at all, or banished like other harmful spirits.

It might have been settled equitably enough, had the outside world not intervened. 

The invasions of Tibet deepened divisions between the human and gyalpo communities - particularly among those who wondered why the 'protector spirits' had failed to prevent outsiders from claiming so much of the country. 

When the 13th Dalai Lama declared that Dolgyal (now called the Dorje Shugden) was no longer to be worshiped, it was a painful blow to the heart of everyone who had dedicated themselves to him. 

With the Chinese armies moving through the country, many of the disaffected and the displaced had no choice but to flee their homeland. 

Even though their countrymen now held them apart, the gyalpo felt they had no choice but to follow. After all - they might be gifted in living in the highest and most secret places, but that would not protect them from tanks and bombs. Shunned by their people as failures, shunned by many in the rest of the world for being nonhumans, it was a lonely, isolated existence, with many gyalpo sticking to small pocket communities, often preferring areas where they could live in higher altitudes to prevent easy discovery.

In the modern day, the more recent pronouncements from the Dalai Lama that Shugden could still be treated as an enlightened spirit, if not a Buddha, has helped with the rift, somewhat, but most gyalpo who live near other Tibetan or Buddhist communities tend to maintain their own temples and traditions.

A notable exception has been a small movement known as the Shambali temple, who have promoted harmony between both sides, revering the Holiness, the Buddha, and the Dorje Shugden. Welcoming any, human, gyalpo, or otherwise who wish to learn and study, they began in a small temple in London, lead by a gyalpo known as Tekhartha Mondatta.

Zenyatta (or as he would be renamed, Tekhartha Zenyatta), came to the Shambali early in the life of the movement. Born as a child of the first generation of exiled gyalpo, he had trained as a more traditional monk but found the traditions of _Vinaya_ were difficult for him at times, and he struggled with the injustice he saw all around him, regardless of origins. 

In Mondatta he found a kindred spirit, and they recognized each others as brothers in soul, if not flesh, almost instantly. 

But even brothers of the heart will differ, and quarrel. 

Zenyatta believes in the message of the Shambali, and his brothers and sisters there, but felt the tendency to hold themselves apart - to wait for the curious and the aspirant to approach them - was incorrect.

Calling back to the earliest days of Pehar and his gyalpo students, he sought to become part of a community - to worship through actions, not simply prayer or teaching. To defend those in need, if necessary, but also to heal discord and soothe chaos in the world around them.

After their debates became increasingly heated, Zenyatta formally requested permission to form a satellite temple, and Mondatta reluctantly agreed. 

Wandering - or if one was to be unkind, exiled again - Zenyatta eventually found a place in New York, becoming part of the 'Littler Tibet' inside of Queens' Little India. 

He no longer considers himself truly bound by the _vindaya_ , since his 'temple' primarily consists of himself, a small studio apartment, and a storefront he rents to teach both physical disciplines (mostly Hop Gar kung fu and Yoga) and spiritual for those who are interested. 

Unsurprisingly, those interested in yoga rather outnumber those interested in the teachings of the Dharma, but Zenyatta doesn't mind. A stream will find a path through any obstacle, just as his guidance will reach those who need it, when the time is right. 

Zenyatta will often take time to wander the boroughs of the city, appreciating it's diversity and vibrancy. Sometimes visiting fellow children of the diaspora (or at least those who will accept and tolerate his presence) for some offered food, or a bit of traditional tea with yak butter, but most often simply seeing where his feet will lead him that day, and appreciating the chance to make new friends.

A fan of music, chess, and movies, Zenyatta happily enjoys his life in the city, but he will not hesitate to offer help if he sees someone in need, or to provide teaching and comfort if invited to do so. 

It is far from the mountains of his people - a place he has never seen with his own eyes - but it is a good life, all the same. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a LOT of fun looking at Tibetan history and culture to find a good fit for Zen, and still maintaining that idea of his people being outsiders even among the outsiders. 
> 
> And, I must say, Marita's interpretation came out damn cute. 
> 
> (And for some reason I feel like his personality in this would come out a lot like Chow Yun-fat in _Bulletproof Monk_.)


	6. Jesse McCree, Licensed and Bonded Bail Agent

The Jesse McCree of Candyfloss is not so...willfully anachronistic as his canon counterpart, but he does enjoy adding a bit of cowboy flare to his usual outfits.

Though he stands just shy of six feet tall, he tends to slump just a bit, trying to put on an unassuming, 'aw shucks' style of doing things. This is an excellent way to help people relax and get comfortable around you, and not think too hard about the fact that you're quite capable of tearing their throats out if given sufficient reason.

Having grown up on both sides of the Mexico / New Mexico border, Jesse is used to a fairly rough and tumble lifestyle (That's a nice way of sayin' we were poor as shit, y'see), but has a surprising depth of knowledge in more refined subjects - particularly considering his 'day job' is a bounty hunter / bail enforcement agent who specializes in Cryptid fugitives.

He keeps a well groomed beard and heavy sideburns, likes to wear button down or flannel shirts with an open neck, and tends to opt for heavy canvas pants or jeans (and cowboy boots, of course.)

He still has both hands, but someone who looks carefully at his left forearm can see the scars from a tattoo removal.

Unlike lycanthropes (your classic 'werewolf'), therianthropes are born, not made through viral infection. In Jesse's case it came around the same time as puberty, for much the same reasons. To the best of his knowledge it came from his father's side of the family, though the trait can 'skip' generations. 

When he changes (an at-will process, not dictated by anything external), it begins with a fine layer of light tan fur that gradually darkens as it thickens, with his eye color changing from brown to a darker black. Muscles shift and his facial features elongate, bones reshaping themselves until he is essentially a large Sonoran Desert Coyote, though if a zoologist was shown pictures they'd likely assume he's a coywolf because of his overall size.

The change is natural and feels 'odd as all hell, until you get used to it', but not actually painful. That said, it does put a fair bit of strain on his heart and circulatory system during the actual change, which is not improved by his tendency to smoke cigars. 

(And yes, he does own a couple of _very_  nice serapes, thank you, but when out in cities he'll generally stick to a vest or a nice jacket.)

He's friendly and happy to have a drink if you run into each other, but he tends to be a solitary man due to his profession and nature. Those who he has to track down, on the other hand, know him to be a relentless pursuer, refusing to rest until his bounty is captured and returned to the hands of the law.

He's had run-ins with Gabriel Reyes before (there's a wary respect there), and a long history with Fareeha Amari thanks to their careers...and her mother.


	7. Dr. Moira O'Deorain, M.D. ANA, AGA

Almost as soon as she learned to walk, Moira Healy knew she was different. A quiet, thin child with her pale skin and rich red hair, she'd never felt quite right among the children of Dundalk.

She heard whispers of 'the poor child' in the grocery stores. Saw the looks of pity people gave her mother when they saw bruises or cuts on her normally flawless skin. 

Michael Healy was a good fisherman but a poor husband, and no one knew why Fiona stayed with him. 

When the fishing fleets were out, it wasn't so bad. She could study. She could read. She could swim - swim for hours in the sea and never feel tired. A few of the other boys and girls would even invite her to play, at least for a little while.

When the boats came in, the first few days were happy ones. Flush with cash, her father would buy toys, books, and candy. They would go out to eat, and almost seemed happy. 

The drinking would start a few days later. 

Her father would scream about how he knew her mother 'must have been looking.' Sometimes he'd tell Moira she was forbidden to go down to the beaches or docks. He would take the swimsuits from her closet and fall into a rage if he could smell the salt.

Even if the other children might play with her at school, no family in town would allow their children near the Healy’s home while the boats were in port.

It went on and on until Moira was ten years old. 

Her mother woke her in the middle of the night, wearing a beautiful coat of the finest grey oilskin that she had ever seen. 

"You must be very quiet," she whispered, and Moira knew in her heart that her life in Dundalk had come to an end.

The next month was a blur of suitcases and moving, new clothes and sitting in cold offices with a book on her lap. 

(She had become fascinated with the bounty of life in the sea. She wondered what it would be like to become a marine biologist, some day. 

She certainly preferred the ocean to people.)

Their path lead them to cross the ocean. They carried new passports with shiny black covers, and wore a new name: O'Deorain.

"It means 'exile'," her mother explained. 

"Does that mean we can never go back?"

"When you're older, sweet pup," her mother had said softly, "I will explain."

All through the journey, her mother never took off that beautiful coat.

They got an apartment in Saint John, and Moira returned to school while her mother worked. 

When she was thirteen, she woke in the middle of the night. She had been dreaming of swimming beneath the water, and of old songs her mother had sung to her as a child.

She didn't even remember leaving the apartment, or how she reached the waves. The tang of the sea filled her senses, and Moira realized she'd come down to the rocks above Courtenay Bay, and when she looked up she could see the moon filling the sky.

As if she was still dreaming, Moira walked to the edge of the shore, tore away her clothes, and leapt into the waves.

She had always felt comfortable in the water, but this was something beyond that. She felt at peace in a way she never had before.

She felt _home_.

Moira slid through the waters like a blade, and she didn't quite understand how she had changed until she realized she could see in the depths without the sting of salt in her eyes, and that her flippers were pushing her through the waves. 

She was not sure how long she swam, but the moon had dipped beneath the horizon when she rose from the waters, and her mother watched with a look of pride and sadness as she walked back to the land.

When she looked at her hands, Moira realized her fingers seemed longer, the webbing between them thicker. 

A black and grey coat was wrapped around her shoulders, warding off the chill, and Moira did not know where it had come from.

Her mother walked her to the car, and they drove home in silence before she sat her down at the table. 

"There are things you need to know."

She learned what it was to be a child of both land and sea. To feel the urge to follow her blood into the waves. To guard her skin as jealously as her heart. 

She learned just how her father had claimed Fiona O’Deorain as a wife...and why, even after she had reclaimed her skin, her mother could never let herself dance upon the waves again. 

“You will always need the water,” her mother explained. “Just as I do. But now I must not swim.” 

“Why?”  
  
Her mother had looked so sad. “There will be a time when the sea wishes to take you back, young pup. When you will begin to forget the land and the days you spent there, and each time you take to the water, the harder it will be to return.”  
  
Moira had looked out onto the waters, and frowned at the sight of wave over wave. “Then why here? Why stay so close?”

“Because I would not deny you your birthright, _a leanbh_. Because I could not leave you with that terrible man a moment longer.” Her mother’s eyes shifted to look out at the sea, distant and sad. “Because I love you with all my heart, but I cannot deny the call.”

From that day on, Moira O’Deorain’s life was changed. She took more maths, more science. She signed up for advanced courses, and set herself relentlessly on the path towards medical school.

Her classmates still avoided her, for the most part, but she was too busy to care. 

Her teachers called her a prodigy. A genius. Driven. 

By day, if she wasn’t in class she was in the library. If she wasn’t in the library she was studying or performing extracurricular labs, working until her head ached and her eyes burned.

By night, though, Moira gave herself up to the sea and let it soothe her each time she dipped beneath the waves.

The medical program at UNBSJ wasn’t as good as McGill or the University of Toronto, but it let her study and stay close to both of her homes. 

They went out to celebrate after her high school graduation.

Her mother forgot the word for ‘fork’ during dinner. 

Staying close to home was very important, indeed.

Alzheimers disease was not so different from the loss of memory and self that Selkie and other Mer-folk suffered in their later lives. Perhaps not quite the same, but there were people fighting for a cure. 

When it came time for Moira to choose her specialty, there was never any doubt. Neurology first, and a sideline in genetics. 

She came home from a Residency shift one morning to find her mother walking along the bay.

She remembered her name was Fiona O’Deorain, but she insisted she’d never had a daughter. 

On June 9th, 1991, two weeks after watching her daughter claim her medical degree, Fiona O’Deorain was reported missing. Several people visiting Irving Nature Park the previous day reported seeing a woman with long grey hair and a dark grey coat walking along the waterside paths. 

Moira grieved, and she threw herself into her work. Drug therapies. Alternative treatments. Early work on genetic analysis, and if some of her research was focused on seemingly bizarre areas...well. More than a few others in her professional circles were happy to trade notes, particularly as more nonhuman communities came out into the open. 

She couldn’t stay in Saint John. The memories were too painful, and Ireland held little appeal. 

Columbia University was forming a dedicated Alzheimer’s center. There were some concerns over her approaches and methods, but Moira was able to secure a place on the staff. 

She wears her coat in the wet and the winter. Even now, it’s ever so warm. She has loved, and lusted, but never left her coat in another’s closet. None but her has ever put it on, and if she has her way, no one else ever will. 

Since the day she turned forty, Moira has felt the urge to swim beneath the waves again. To follow the paths back to the sea, and to let herself slip into her mother’s embrace. 

Moira purchased a membership to a gym with an infinite pool, and for an extra fee, they’ll fill it with saltwater.

She swims in it, both as a woman and as a seal, at least once every other week.

It isn’t enough, but she wants to believe it helps. 

On work days, Moira is often wearing narrow, rectangular lensed glasses with titanium half rimmed frames,a slight blue tint to help with the glare from computer screens and to make her heterochromia a bit less obvious to a casual observer. 

She prefers men’s dress shirts, ties, and slacks in the office, and freely admits her wardrobe at home is ‘Butch as shit’, but occasionally finds a dress or skirt she likes, and she’ll wear it out. 

She’s worked on occasion with Angela Ziegler, but neither knows the other is a nonhuman. Angela is very careful about binding her wings and feet when meeting professional acquaintances from other hospitals, and even though Moira is aware that Ziegler works in the field of nonhuman medicine, she doesn’t trust easily. (Not every selkie is as paranoid as Moira...but not many had a childhood like hers, either.)

Ironically, Lena _does_ know Moira is a nonhuman, should they run into each other. That particular one night stand was a _long_ time ago, and her memory of the late nineties gets a little fuzzy at times, but it would click eventually.


	8. Torbjörn Lindholm, CEO of Lindholm Assistive Technologies

Nisse.

Tonttu.

Tomte.

 _Gnomes_.

A dozen names or more for the same people, spread through the hills, the forests, the fjords, and the ice.

Short and stocky, built for cold climates and cold places.

There are stories that their first ancestors were hewn from the mountainsides by lightning and rain. Others claim the winds sang them out of stones.

A few said they were grown from _mushrooms,_ but everyone knows that’s foolish.

Still, they were a hardy people, who learned to live off the land in places others could not. Farming what could be farmed. Building homes when they could. Living in caves or hollows when they couldn’t.

A proud tradition of adapting and surviving, regardless of the world around them, and Torbjörn Lindholm carries it on, even if New York is a long way from Bohuslän.

As more “cryptids” and non-humans began to step out of the shadows, it wasn’t hard to figure out that many species who had been making do to live in the wainscotting of human society could use solutions tailored to their unique needs.

In 1982, Torbjörn was working as a carpenter and craftsman in upstate New York, daring Long Islanders to say a word about his short, squat stature even as he sold them exquisitely crafted dining room sets and cabinetry.

It was sheer coincidence that he would be asked to personally supervise a kitchen installation in Queens, and the chief contractor hired to work with him a mountain of a man named Reinhardt Wilhelm.

Wilhelm insisted he could use a completely unsuitable hammer to perform the installation. Torbjörn challenged the ‘giant blockhead’ to prove it.

To Torbjörn’s great surprise, Reinhardt did.

A few hours and a couple beers in a quiet bar Reinhardt had recommended later, they were having an in depth discussion of life ‘in the community’, and at lunch the next day Reinhardt took him to a Nonhuman Rights rally being lead by a dark haired firebrand of a public speaker with blazing copper eyes.

Ana Amari had a lot of ideas about the ‘community’ too - and how those Cryptids able to pass needed to stop pretending to be human, and start being a better part of it.

Torbjörn thought long and hard about that, on his drive back to Long Island.

In 1985, and after several discussions with his new wife, Ingrid, Torbjörn quit the carpentry business to open Lindholm Assistive Technologies out of an old Queens warehouse.

At first they focused on furniture and simple items that could be adjusted or scaled for different types of nonhuman - most handcrafted, and all with care and attention to the needs of users with extended finger joints, unusually long legs, and (in the case of bathroom fixtures) large amounts of feathers or hair.

Today, LAT is one of several dozen companies producing furniture, fixtures, and tools for nonhumans, with subdivisions producing clothing, textile products, and even some electronics, all with an unparalleled reputation for quality and craftsmanship.

The company’s HQ sits in Queens, and their factories can be found in the US and Sweden, with sales offices or distribution agreements on nearly every continent. Torbjörn has slowly given up time in his workshops and design studio to manage things as CEO - all handled with the appropriate care and dedication he once applied to handmade chairs and bespoke cabinetry.

He’d still prefer to be in his workshop, but it _is_ nice to be able to slip away to play some golf or attend a ‘business lunch’ with a few friends now and then. Even if Reinhardt wouldn’t stop bellyaching at him until he made sure every factory that wanted to Unionize had done so. Even better, the job has become a family affair - Ingrid works as the company’s comptroller, and several of his children work in different areas of the company - in particular his adopted daughter, Brigitte.

And if quite a few of their employees are short, broad, and quite gifted with their hands...well. They’re all in this together, aren’t they?

Like most gnomes, Torbjörn has extremely short and broad legs, wide, flat feet. His torso and arms are close to human proportions - one of the reasons that many simply hide in plain sight as men or women with a form of dwarfism.

His nose is unusually large compared to a normal human’s, but the thick white blonde beard he wears makes it less obvious, and nowhere near as blatant as his younger days when he went clean shaven.

(He puts the plaited braids in for formal photos and family holidays, but most of the time he just brushes and combs it into submission - he’d rather focus on getting ready for his day and a good breakfast instead.)

Not every male gnome goes bald, but baldness runs in the Lindholm family, and Torbjörn is no exception. As a younger man he generally wore ballcaps or a welding hood when working in the shop, but now it does add a certain amount of _gravitas_ when dealing with his board or other captains of industry, and if he’s going out to hit the golf course, he has a nice red leather duffer’s cap to keep him from worrying about a sunburned scalp.

A few of their older children have begun to have kids of their own, and he’s starting to look at the business with an eye towards retirement. He and Ingrid have a ‘summer cabin’ near Gothenburg, and it might be nice to give the grandkids a chance to experience more of their heritage, sooner than later.


	9. Brigitte Lindholm, assistant to the Chief Designer

Brigitte Lindholm stands out in all her family photos, and it’s not just because she’s a good two feet taller than her father.

Not long after Lindholm Assistive Technologies secured the funding for their first major expansion, Torbjörn took his wife and their firstborn son on a trip to Europe to celebrate, while Reinhardt tagged along as a combination babysitter, batman, and guide as they visited his native Germany before turning north to visit the Lindholm ancestral lands in Sweden, followed by a visit to Iceland before returning to the US.

(Ingrid Lindholm was born Ingrid Olfursdottir, and still has extended family near Hoffel, though she was born in Flushing, and all of their children are US citizens - and many, but not all, Gnomes. It’s quite likely Ingrid has some nonhuman ancestors, given the way she and Torby have established their family, but she’s never concerned herself to get a DNA test. She has a loving husband and wonderful family - that’s her only concern.)

They were in one of the glacier parks not far from their hotel when Torbjörn found a strange cave entrance - hot and steaming against the cooler air, with an odd wailing noise coming from it.

At first, Torbjörn thought they had discovered a volcanic vent, and told Ingrid to keep back a safe distance with their son while he and Reinhardt took a look, intending to hike back to the park ranger’s station if there was anything that seemed dangerous.

They’d just reached the mouth of the cave, the heat strong enough to give both of them pause, when the wailing cry sounded again - and this time it was clear it was no steam vent or cooling lava.

It was the cry of a baby.

Torbjörn pushed past Reinhardt, braving the heat as he went to seek the child - after all, they must be in danger, and if it were _his_ kid…well.

In his haste, Torbjörn stumbled on the hot, wet cavern floor, and nearly fell into a crevasse before Reinhardt was able to grab his arm, pulling him back to safety.

To this day, Reinhardt insists he saved Torbjörn’s life...and Torbjörn grumbles, but he doesn’t disagree.

It didn’t take long to find the source of the cries and wails. A girl barely old enough to crawl wrapped in dark grey blankets, apparently left next to the actual volcanic vent, the heat and steam radiating from it so intense that it had begun to give her mild burns.

Ingrid had been preparing to hike out and fetch a ranger when, twenty minutes later, Torbjörn and Reinhardt returned with poorly swaddled baby carefully nestled in Torby’s arms.

(Brigitte _hates_ when her mother tells this story, because she points out how cute - and completely naked - she was for most of the hike to the ranger station.)

It was only when Ingrid was giving the baby a wipe and a diaper at the station that they realized the ‘abandoned’ child had gracefully pointed ears, and that is when things got complicated.

It was (and is) the official position of the Icelandic government that the _huldufólk_ do not exist. Through longstanding agreements, some dating back to the earliest written records, human society does not discuss the Elves and Fairies who live beneath the earth, and in exchange the _huldufólk_ do not trouble Icelanders (though many families leave small offerings for the _álfar_ , just to be safe.)

For an (apparently) human couple to have found a _child_ and removed her from where she had been left to survive or die of her own accord was potentially disastrous. But one attempt to suggest to the well meaning foreigners that perhaps the child should be left back at the cavern was met with outrage, and after seeing the big one nearly shatter a desk with his fist, no one was quick to raise the idea again.

In the end, the Lindholms (and company) would spend the last weekend of their vacation at the American Embassy, negotiating through state department lawyers while the Icelandic government made it clear that if they would not _return_ the child, the best thing for everyone involved would be for her to be removed from the area - permanently.

Two days later, the Lindholms introduced their son to his new baby sister, and Ingrid made sure the proper notices and announcements of an adoption would be posted in the newspapers.

If they made sure that little Brigitte wore a knit cap that covered her ears in all the photos, that wasn’t terribly odd, was it?

It wasn’t long before Brigitte began to grow like a weed, her hair coming in a dark, thick auburn red that they took care to style to hide her ears.

She was a clever child, and it wasn’t long before she took an interest in her father’s workshop and his best friend’s boisterous stories.

When Brigitte was six, she disassembled the toaster - and reassembled it to automatically load and fire the (perfectly golden) toast three feet into the air.

When she was seven, she convinced her daycare to form a collective bargaining group to obtain more fruit snacks and an additional nap.

Her interest in labor organizing waned as she grew older, but Brigitte still believed in taking care of everyone - even those who might not be able to care for themselves - and maintained her love of design and tinkering.

She attended Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute beginning at age 17, majoring in Materials and Mechanical engineering, and it wasn’t long before Brigitte Ingridsdottir was the newest intern in LAT’s research and development department, insisting on using the traditional Icelandic naming scheme in hopes of avoiding claims of nepotism as she worked for the company through each summer of her college career.

She has improved several of LAT’s existing product lines since taking on the family business, and developed several of her own - particularly focusing on hand tools and personal protective equipment.

Today, Brigitte works as the assistant to the company’s chief designer, and many suspect that when her father is ready to hang it up, she will be encouraged to take his place on the board, if not at the head of the company as a whole.

She still has a love of manual work and creation, and thanks to ‘Papa Reinhardt’ she knows how to swing a mean hammer, either at the blacksmith’s forge or inside her workshop, and lives in an apartment not far from LAT headquarters with her cat, Kanel (Cinnamon).

Brigitte is a powerfully built, athletic woman, her skin tone naturally a bit warmer than her adoptive parents, with scattershots of freckles and long red hair that she typically wears in a high ponytail, with long bangs framing her face.

She made the decision before starting college not to hide her ears or her nonhuman heritage, and typically arranges her hair so the tips are noticeable, but she doesn’t call a great deal of attention to them.

Her hazel eyes appear faintly luminescent in low light, and when she is not wearing business casual attire, she has a preference for tank tops (often made from t-shirts that she’s ripped the sleeves from), cargo pants, and workboots.

As a _huldufólk,_ she has better than normal low light vision, exceptional hearing, and a certain affinity for caves and small dark spaces. Her family also learned that she must eat the equivalent of a cup of fresh honey and a quart of milk daily (the most common offerings, according to myth), and Brigitte incorporates them into her diet and workout routine without much trouble.

She does in fact like exercise because she loves eating, and she could probably give Zarya a run for her money in an eating contest.

Despite, arguably, a tragic background, Brigitte has a positive, upbeat attitude on life thanks to how she was raised and her family’s general attitude - even if her papa would grumble the entire way to his own birthday party.

She likes helping and protecting people, and enjoys that her work will keep people safe, and make their lives better.

She doesn’t get out to Bed-Stuy or Midtown that often, but she did hear about the attack at Club L’Enfer, and now that the club is reopened she intends to go - and possibly drag her parents, or a few of her brothers and sisters - along with her.

In addition to her ‘day job’ at LAT, she recently trained as a volunteer firefighter and EMT, and works one weekend a month at the local FDNY station (Engine 305) as part of their reserves.

She has never met another _huldufólk,_ though she has tried to do a little research online. It’s 99% rumors and 1% outright lies, but Brigitte doesn’t let it bother her.

After all, even if she doesn’t know much about where she came from, she knows who her family is.


	10. Efi Oladele & Orisa

Efi Oladele was about as normal as any child from the South Bronx. Bright, inquisitive, scoring extremely well on her standardized tests and perhaps showing a strong aptitude for maths and the sciences, but otherwise an entirely ordinary, human child from a pair of hardworking first-generation American parents.

Perfectly normal.

Until two weeks before her 11th birthday.

Efi had been with her classmates on a field trip to the Bronx Museum of the Arts, walking across the street to Miller Park, when a drunk driver ran the intersection, headed straight for the line of children in the crosswalk.

Screams and shouts of alarm rose and were suddenly cut off by a loud crunching sound and the blaring noise of a stuck car horn - but the children in the street were, miraculously, unharmed.

The drunk driver’s sedan was quite another story. The car’s entire front end was smashed in as if it had hit some impossible barrier, and a broad bladed spear had been thrust cleanly through the engine block and into the street, pinning it like a bug.

To the surprise and awe of everyone watching (many of whom had begun taking photos or streaming video with their phones), a seven foot tall woman dressed in ancient looking armor appeared in the intersection, a shield made of intricately carved wood in her hand. She scanned the area around her, as if to make sure no other threats were approaching, then wrenched the spear loose from the remains of the car with a shriek of tortured metal.

Efi and her classmates watched in awe as she approached, her body cloaked in shadow except for the bright golden glow of her eyes.

As she stepped fully into the light, Efi could see the woman’s armor was a mix of hard leather, lacquered wood, polished bronze, and what seemed to be leaves and vines that grew between them, intertwining and reinforcing everything. She wore a helmet that seemed to combine cattle horns that had somehow been lacquered a vivid green, and a bronze expressionless mask concealed her face.

Efi stepped past her stunned classmates, and reached out her hand. “Hello. I’m Efi.”

“Hello,” the woman responded in a warm and strangely resonant voice. “You are not hurt?”

Efi shook her head.

“Good.” The woman slung her shield to hang from her shoulder before removing her mask to reveal a beautiful face and a kind smile. “I will see you again soon!”

Then she was gone, and Efi was swamped by questions from her friends, classmates, and teachers that she could not answer.

Efi did not believe in ghost stories, but after seeing a ghost wreck a car to protect her, she was willing to admit she had been wrong.

She couldn’t hide what had happened from her parents, and they were both equally confused when they watched the videos and looked at the pictures with her. Neither had any non-human ancestors they knew of, and Efi’s father even paid for a DNA test kit to confirm their daughter was, by all apparent measures, 100% human.

So where had the strange woman come from, and what did she want?

After several trips to the library, some supervised internet browsing, and questions about her family tree, Efi thought she had an answer - but she wanted to be _sure_.

Her search lead her to a storefront on the edge of Harlem one afternoon after school, where several careful inquiries suggested she might learn more.

_Africentrica_ , the sign read. _Heritage Arts - Books - Crafts_

The gentleman running the shop smelled like tobacco and a little bit like the butcher where her mother purchased goat and chicken when he came around the counter, and Efi tried not to wrinkle her nose.

“Not sure you like that, eh?” He grinned a bit crookedly. “My way isn’t for everyone. But you’re looking for something, I can tell.” He looked more carefully at her, taking in her school uniform. “Your parents know you’re in here today?”

Efi nodded, and tried to keep her voice respectful as she could. “I’m looking for information on my heritage. The tribe I came from, and their legends. My parents have been helping, but the library doesn’t have what I think I need.”

The old man knelt down next to her and gave her a broad smile as he looked into her eyes.

“Ahhhh. I think I see now. Your _ashe_ is strong, girl. A spirit watches over you - a very, very powerful one. An ancestor, perhaps. You’ve felt her, haven’t you?”

Efi nodded. “But how do I see her again? How do I find out why she is with me?”

“There is an easy way to see her,” the shopkeeper said with a thoughtful frown, “and a harder way.”

Something about the way he said that made Efi nervous. “What’s easy?”

“If she is protecting you,” he explained, “you just need to be in danger, and she should appear”

Efi didn’t like that option at all, and she knew her parents wouldn’t allow it. “And what is the harder way?”

The old man grinned again. “Find what she likes, and offer them to her.”

Efi frowned as she looked around the store. “I don’t know how to do that.”

He just chuckled and stood, leading her back towards a bookshelf. “That’s what I’m here to teach you.”

\---

It took trial and error, but Efi finally found a few things that she _knew_ that her protector would like.

A little potted aloe plant. A stuffed dog. A tightly wrapped bundle of sacred cowhide, and most importantly: A dish of chocolate chip ice cream. It was her favorite, and she knew her ancestor’s spirit would like it too!

Once she had everything laid out on the _Ifa_ plate she’d purchased at the bookstore, Efi knelt in front of it and closed her eyes, trying to concentrate on the image of the woman who had saved her life, and began to sing the ritual songs she’d been taught, trying to reach her protector, thank her, and ask her to accept the gifts.

When she finished the song and there did not seem to be any change, and but Efi could almost feel that same presence again.

“I know you’re watching over me now,” Efi said into the empty air of her bedroom. “You told me I would see you soon! Can you please come here and visit me?”

There was a crackling in the air like static electricity, and a smell like iron and the mossy rocks Efi found in the park sometimes, and a moment later her guardian appeared, kneeling carefully down on the floor to set down her spear and shield before she picked up the plate.

“Are these for me?”

Efi nodded as she moved from kneeling to sitting, careful not to kick the spear. “Yes! I hope you like them.”

The spirit examined the plate, turning it slowly to look at each item. “These look very interesting! Thank you!”

Efi clapped her hands. This was so exciting! It made her want to dance and laugh and shout, but she settled for her biggest and brightest smile. “You’re welcome! You should probably start with the ice cream first, before it starts to melt.”

“That seems like a good idea,” she agreed, and carefully took the spoon in hand. Her first bite was careful and cautious, but it wasn’t long before she’d eaten the entire bowl with an expression of pure delight.  
  
“That was wonderful! Is there more?”

“Yes, but…” Efi looked back towards the door to her room. “My mom and dad will notice if we go get more without their permission.”

“Oh.” The glow of the spirit’s eyes dimmed slightly. “That would be very rude. But I would like to try that again.”

“Well…” Efi considered that. “If I know how to call you to me when I’m not in my room, I could take you to the ice cream shop after school?”

“I am here to protect you,” the spirit said slowly. “But I _would_ like to have more ice cream.”

“OK! Just show me what to do...ah…” Efi blinked. “What _do_ I call you? The man who taught me how to make you an offering said you might be my ancestor - do you have a name?”

“My...name…” The spirit picked up her helmet, and carefully examined her mask. “I had one, once. I know I did. But…” She shook her head. “I changed. Long ago, I changed, and now I do not know.”

Efi reached out to put her hand on the spirit’s knee. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

“It is...OK?” The spirit smiled uncertainly back at her. “It was a good question! But I do not remember. I think it has been a very, very long time.”

“Well,” Efi said as she stood up to examine her ancestor, “he said you might be my guide from an _Orisha_. Does that feel right?”

“Yes, I think it does,” the spirit agreed, then hummed as she picked up the plush toy and stroked the fur. “But...if you wish to call me something, would you like to call me Orisa? I like that name! I think it’s very good!”

“Orisa,” Efi said, then nodded. “I like it too. So - can we be friends?”

“Of course!”

Now Efi did laugh, excited and thrilled to have made such an amazing new friend, and when her parents came into her room to see what was going on, it was quite a surprise for everyone!

* * *

For purposes of her portrait, Efi is going to need to be a bit of a mishmash between canon and a “modern” appearance.

Top schools in the South Bronx are part of the Classical Charter group, so the uniform for most middle school / elementary school girls is dark shoes, white stockings, a dark blue skirt, a white button down short sleeved shirt and a wide blue knot tie.

Instead of the big headdress / ear protection combo she has in canon, maybe a white or green pair of beats headphones, and instead of the Orisa horn earrings on the ends of the headphones I think she’s wearing one as a pendant instead? (Her parents might be able to make an excuse it’s a religious symbol.)

I wish we could do the eye makeup and traditional markings but I don’t think a public school would let that fly.

She’s bright, curious, and has a huge heart - and if asked, Orisa might suggest that perhaps the reason she is there to protect her is that Efi has a great destiny ahead of her.

Still, she’s twelve years old, and that means her parents have to set a lot of ground rules. (Not that Efi is a bad kid, but she does like to read between the lines, and her ability to summon Orisa makes that much more complicated.)

(Summoning Orisa after homework is done is OK. Summoning Orisa in an emergency is OK. Summoning Orisa to help with her math homework and saying it was an emergency was NOT OK, especially since Orisa had no idea how to do trigonometry in the first place!)

She’s taken it upon herself to learn more about the power that has suddenly been placed at her fingertips, perhaps to become a true shaman in the Yoruba tradition in time, and to help Orisa understand more about how the modern world works and her place in it.

She still wants to go to college and become a scientist (or perhaps an engineer!) but it’s clear the world is a lot bigger and more fascinating than she’d thought, and Efi is up for taking on the challenge.

As a member of what a lot of pundits call the “Cryptid generation”, she’s used to non-humans being more and more “out” in day to day life around her, and she’s tried to introduce Orisa to some of the members of the community in her area so she can make more friends, but for the most part Orisa is happy to go where Efi goes, and certainly wouldn’t shirk her duty to wander off and talk to someone.

(Now, while Efi’s asleep is another matter, so long as she is safe, and if she were to meet a ghost like Mei, well...that might be quite interesting!)

—-

Orisa is obviously not a robot centaur in this AU! But she is essentially an ascended ancestor spirit who has been existing among the other spirits and Orishas for a very long time.

She doesn’t entirely know why she was drawn to Efi, aside from knowing her descendant has a bright soul and is meant for great things, but she’s fascinated by the modern world and the many different creatures that inhabit it. When Efi is in danger, protecting her is Orisa’s first priority, but she is gradually learning to explore and enjoy more than her duty.

Appearance wise I’m thinking blending her default skin and the new forest spirit to create the look of her clothing and armor. Since Orishas often have elements of wood, iron, or leaves, I think incorporating the natural materials sounds like a good way to go.

Beneath the armor, she is a strong, powerfully built woman with regal features. Though Orisa cannot remember much of her mortal life, she was a warrior, a mother, a tribal leader, and a spiritual guide to her people before her death and transfiguration. Her facial features are mostly human, but her eyes are basically glowing golden light, much like the omnic in game.

For the spear she carries, it should have a long head that starts wide at the base and comes to a very narrow point, with a wooden shaft that would flatten and flare out at the end - the spear that Okoye carries in _Black Panther_ is a pretty good one to take inspiration from? The Yoruba used spears similar to both the Zulu assegai and the Ethiopian guji from what I can find online so I think those might give you some ideas too.

Since she wouldn’t have her big glowy shields, I figured something between a traditional Yoruba shield mask and a Songye would be the best fit, but if an idea strikes you I’m up for seeing what you had in mind. :)

Last but not least her helmet / mask is basically just taking the omnic head from her default skin and making it work as a piece of armor.


	11. Akande Ogundimu, aka DOOMFIST

 

Akande Ogundimu was born into privilege, and it bored him.

The heir to ODM Medical, a pharmaceutical and medical supplies powerhouse, he went through most of his early life breezing through classes and sessions with tutors. The only things that managed to catch his interest were the martial arts and physical training sessions his family booked for him after school, and the increasing amounts of nonhumans that were finally admitting that they’d been living alongside humanity throughout history.

He continued to train when he went off to Brown for his undergraduate degree and a place in the MBA program, and though he took up his expected place on ODM’s board after graduation he informed his family he would not be taking an active position in the company.

Instead, Akande would be pursuing his true passion, nutured through his studies and training over the course of his adolescence and early adulthood: Professional Mixed Martial Arts fighting.

After being noticed by a manager and promoter named Akinjide Adeyemi while he’d been competing in intramural and amateur tournaments, Akande had set his sights on becoming a professional so he could test the skills he’d been building against true competition, particularly since the UFC and similar organizations at the time had been operating without the regulation of state fighting boards and commissions.

With practically everything permissible, it was a thrill to prove he was the strongest, smartest, and best, and Akande’s natural charisma and showmanship quickly made him a favorite in post-match press conferences and occasional stints in the commentary booth.

As more regulation came in, Akande found the challenge in the Featherweight and Lightweight categories increasingly lacking, but Adeyemi objected to him putting on weight and muscle to build up for the higher weight classes, not wishing to risk his prize athlete or his reputation.

Akande was more than happy to take over managing his own affairs - particularly when he determined Akinjide had been skimming from several of his endorsement deals.

The move up to higher weight classes and being forced to use and master new tactics and techniques restored some of the thrill he’d been missing, and Akande began receiving more notoriety - particularly after one bout where he’d run out of the white wraps he normally used, and had to wrap his left fist with black bands instead.   
  
Kenny Florian dubbed Akande ‘The Doomfist’ as he battered down Heath Herring’s guard, and within two hours of his victory Akande was selling DOOMFIST! T-shirts on his website.

Unfortunately, as Akande reached the Super Heavyweight class, he found matches more and more an exercise in manufacturing, false posturing, and frequent attempts to encourage him to take a dive ‘for the sake of the sport.’

He made the decision to retire instead, opening a gym to offer training and instruction to aspirant fighters and professional athletes from other sports looking to crosstrain in their offseasons.

He still attends ODM board meetings and various events - it’s good to promote the brand, after all - but those in the know are more likely to stop by certain clubs and event spaces, where underground matches are held.

Doomfist has never stopped fighting - but he no longer faces _human_ opponents.

Unlike the members of Saint George or similar groups, Akande is not a bigot. He does not view nonhumans as monsters, aberrations, or as something to be destroyed. He simply believes humans have the capability to be better. That while most nonhuman species evolved for particular roles in their ecosystems, humanity is capable of adapting, evolving, and meeting any challenge.

Against faster opponents, he will concentrate on blocks, endurance, and exploiting their mistakes. Against stronger and slower opponents, Akande will use speed and technique, looking for their weak points and feinting away from blows.

Against someone faster AND stronger, he will often rope-a-dope, often using kicks and grappling to negate their advantages.

Akande enters the ring with a bounty on his head: $100,000 to anyone who can knock him out or force him to concede.

He has yet to pay out, but he dearly hopes someone will give him a fight worthy enough to earn it.

* * *

So, yeah! The trick to Akande is he’s 100% home grown human.

Appearance wise he’s a tall (6’2”), aggressively chiseled 45 year old dude who has kept himself in peak fighting shape, his weight carefully maintained between 245 and 260 lbs. (The heavyweight / super heavyweight requirements. He could step in the ring for the UFC or a similar event tomorrow, and more than a few have tried to get him to do it.)

I think for purposes of the portrait he’s wearing fighting shorts and a tank top that shows off his shoulders and pecs with the Meteor Strike ult logo on it, with one upraised fist wrapped in gold boxing tape / Coban down to his elbow.

His head is shaved down and he wears war paint similar to his default skin when fighting, but otherwise he will clean up in standard business attire when appropriate, or rock a white tuxedo for more formal events, much like the _Masquerade_ comic.

(And he totally wore that Venetian noble outfit from the comic for the Met Gala.)

He spends as much time as he can in the ring, working out, or training others. Most certainly not the life his family expected of him - but one where he finally, at last, is no longer bored.

**Author's Note:**

> All portraits were commissioned from [Marita Broodley](http://three-legged-cow.tumblr.com), who also created the original cast portraits for Candyfloss & Lace!


End file.
